


The Meme Team

by FauxPause



Series: Lepidoptera Modum [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, As per usual I AM A GLAICER, Bad Flirting, Bad Pick-Up Lines, Bad Translations (I'm sorry please help if you can), Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Bullying, But it makes us all feel better, Characters play D&D, Chatlogs, Chatting & Messaging, Crossdressing, Dating, Developing Friendships, F/F, F/M, Families of Choice, Fix-It, Growing Up, Guns, It's like a Highschool AU and a College AU, Lance (Voltron)-centric, M/M, Major Original Character(s), Memes, Mentors, Minor Original Character(s), Mirrored Fic, Misunderstandings, Near Death Experiences, Never Meet Your Heroes, No character bashing, Officially hella AU as of s8, Original Character(s), Paired fic, Party Games, Secret Soccer Games, Shooting Guns, Shooting Range, Slice of Life, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Sneaking Out, Some Canon Characters essentially written as OC's because Voltron didn't give us a lot to work with, Sorry Not Sorry, Team as Family, The Plot is Out There, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Underage Drinking, Unreliable Narrator, boys wearing makeup, but it's slow coming, but with more guns and military structures and also it's still in the canon universe, crappy translations, like Adam and Iverson and most of the Garrison Staff, revolving door scene, self-indulgent fic, some elements of s8 will feature, violence is not the answer, we in trouble now fam, wow those are unrelated I swear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-06-25 14:56:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15643080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FauxPause/pseuds/FauxPause
Summary: Sister Fic to The A Team.Lance's life has changed many times over. The first time he swam in the ocean, the first time he peered through a telescope and saw the cosmos above, his first fight, his first kiss. When he was accepted into the Garrison, however, he thought those life-changing revelations would peter out. He knew who he was, where he was from, what he wanted to do with his life- he even had a friend walking the same path! He had this whole thing pretty much figured out.After returning to the Garrison from a holiday break, however, he finds that those firsts were only the beginning and that this change is only the first of many yet to come.Or: How Lance McClain Grew Up, Got Over Himself and Became Earth's Hero.





	1. Mad World

**Author's Note:**

> Temporarily on PAUSE while A Team is written (because I have no self-control and this wasn't meant to be up at all yet ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those first four lines really...

Lance wakes with a gasp.

 

He struggles against the restraints surrounding his limbs, shoulders jerking and legs kicking. He has to get away. He has to find the others and...

He's so consumed the need to get free that it takes far too long for him to notice the total darkness surrounding him.

 

He falls still.

 

Lance blinks, lashes brushing against the resistance of his visor. There’s an endless void surrounding him, not even a hint of stars or life in any direction.  
_Oh, no. No no no._ He knows this darkness. Knows this feeling. The strange resistance against his kicking limbs, the fatigue, shortness of breath. _No! No! No!_

The never-ending void presses in on him.

He’s spinning out of control, weightless and oh gods he’s alone, he’s in the vacuum of space _again_ and no hand in his this time and there’s no _air_ and-

He crashes to the floor, the last of his breath escaping him in a rattling groan on impact. The fibers from his carpet scratch at his cheek and his neck.

 

Shaking hands push frantically at his eye mask, ripping the stupid thing off his face and launching it across the room. It crumples in a sad heap next to his shoes, half under his raised bed. He flops back onto the carpet, limbs akimbo and shouts wordlessly at the ceiling.

His eyes trace out the dead and faded glow stars he’d tacked around the light fixture. A few of the constellations are real. Leo, Orion's belt, Ursa Major, Scorpio. Most of them, though, are fake. A swell of stars that looks like a septopus (he’d run out of patience after the 7nth limb), a curled spiral, a sword without a cross guard. He’d brought the stickers from home his first semester ever and couldn’t bear to throw them away now. Privately, he planned on sneaking one or two into a real shuttle with him. Take his childhood stars up to see the real ones with him. He digs his fingers into the coarse fibers and scratches at them thoughtlessly, enjoying the catch-and-drag sensation under his short nails.

He takes a deep breath.

The room still smells stale, new. Mostly cleaning supplies and a bit of dust from the time it spent empty over the summer. It doesn’t smell like him. It doesn’t smell like Hunk-

He slams a fist into the floor, the muffled thump assuaging his anger that the swing hurt his hand far more than the floor. The impact jars up his arm. He resolves to go to the gym this semester. He’ll have plenty of time now that… well, now.

 

With another groan, Lance rolls to his knees and crawls over to his desk. He tugs the uniform thrown over chair down and slides into his pants, bumping his butt against the carpet as he refuses to get off the floor for at least another minute. The sixty seconds click over soon enough and Lance drags himself to his feet. He scrubs a fist across his eyes, grimacing at the feeling of the sand collected there. He throws a glance over at the door to the ensuite. The light isn’t on. He purses his lips for a moment before deciding to just go for it. He can handle a little awkward. Missing his routine on the first day of school? Not so much.

 

The door swings open, unlocked. He flips the switch. The LED light flickers on and nearly blinds him. The bathroom is small, but not quite the shoe box Lance was used to. There was room for a few steps between the toilet and the shower, and a shuffle of space between the toilet and the sink. There’s a pile of bowls next to his suitemates door and Lance pauses in brushing his teeth to stare at them quizzically. He eyes his two shower caddies, one actually for the shower and the other for stuff in general, and decides he doesn’t have any room to judge. Still, he glances back at the frankly absurdly tall tower of bowls, why the heck does he have that many _bowls_?!

He rereads the scrawled notes they’d tagged across the mirror as he scrubbed his face. Lance’s purple marker forming sharp lines in all caps near the top of the mirror. Questions about shower times and bathroom rules punctuated with bracketing question marks out of sheer lazy habit. (Points to David though, he hadn’t said anything about it. Yet.) Orange answers and returning questions scrawled along in neat letters that leaned up and to the right as the shorter of the pair wrote.

Lance was pretty sure he’d shared an English class with the guy, but only from days on end listening to role call. They’ve lived together for about a week, given that Lance ended up coming back early. The cheapest flight landed him in Texas about a week ahead of schedule. He thinks that David didn’t go home over the summer and wonders why that is. Lance can barely handle not going home every holiday, but tight purse strings and a solid internet connection create enough work arounds for him to deal. Last year Mami even kept the video on in the kitchen so he could watch her cook from the counter. He hums a half forgotten tune under his breath, absently feeling his chin for scruff. He’s seen David maybe six times in the last seven days and three of those were from across the cafeteria.

He rinsed his face and walked back into his room, flipping the light and closing the door behind him in accordance with the bathroom treaty. He stutters over a bar in the song as he shrugs on his under shirt. Given the standoffish attitude, the only communication coming through the mirror notes, and fancy electric toothbrush, he thinks David, Cadet Caufield, must have gotten in on reccs. A nasty feeling slithers through his stomach, it’s possible that the guy is trying to quietly turn his nose up at Lance and his, tentative and rocky at the moment, scholarship situation.

 

The slithering turns to a burning gurgle as he worries over his next set of grades. Iverson was already chomping at the bit to knock him out of the pilot course, nevermind the fighter course he’d squeaked into. Maybe Hunk could help him study for the few mechanica- and then the thought’s gone because so is Hunk.

_It was only, like, a year and change of rooming together, McClain. What did you expect? Life-long friendship? Really?_

Anger burns and sputters out against the tide of sadness welling within him. It was hard to stay mad when Hunk was just doing what was best for his future. Even if it meant leaving Lance behind. Even if it meant switching crews to-

Lance throws on his over-shirt with a huff. There was the next resolution; try not to think about Kogane and his dumb hair and stupid sim scores. He scrubs a hand through his hair and looks around the room, trying to put thoughts of long hair and headbands and _the sting of constant rejection_ out of his mind.

It’s smaller than the one he shared wit-, he tightens his belt angrily, than his last one, but not by all that much.

He doesn’t have enough stuff to fill it up. Just some spare blankets, a few mismatched pillows he snatched from home (they still smell like his family and he’s dreading the day they stop), and a small wireless speaker that you have to tap a few times to ‘knock the static out of it’ after turning it on. His walls are already filling up with photos, but there are noticeable holes in the design he’d tried to recreate. Empty patches that didn’t belong to him in the first place. Over the head of his bed is the collage of his family, that one hasn’t changed except for the new picture of his now youngest niece. She’s small and pink and swaddled up in the hospital. On the wall his bed is pressed against, there’s a few more random snapshots. Mostly of cloudy skies with a bright moon peeking through or of sunsets on a particular beach or from the top of buildings, that took _forever_ to scale, in the Garrison. There’s a small magazine poster of Captain Takashi Shirogane, the edges crinkled and folded over from time and transport. It’s about two years out of date now, but Lance has kept it as a reminder of his inspiration. Both to get into the Garrison program and… He’s got a mini Cuban flag taped up above the poster and a few shells tacked up with leftover putty. His dishes are taking up all together too much space on his dresser, but he didn’t want to take them home and he can’t figure out where else to put them. There are too many now. He’s got no one to share them with. There’s too much empty space on the floor. He stands back and looks at the relative tidiness of his room, knowing that one way or another it was going to cycle through to absolute chaos soon enough. It still felt hollow. Empty. He wasn’t used to living on his own, or to such a large room. He wondereds again at his new suite mate. Who the heck picks the _smaller_ room?

He stares at his bag where it sits, all alone. The edges are little frayed from age but the bigger rips came from him ripping out the button’s he’d pinned.

He’d bought them with dimes and quarters one night after sneaking out with Hunk for cherry gummies and ginger ale. It was the last run they’d made before Hunk had just - stopped talking to him. His introvert best friend started staying out at night, stopped sending texts - he didn’t even get any read receipts and after three days Lance had quit sending them. It’d started around finals. Lance would like to say he knew exactly when it’d begun, but it’d been _finals_ and if he hadn’t gotten that last grade up he’d get called in for a review. He hadn’t really notice until Hunk stopped stopped sleeping in their room. After two nights of no Hunk and long tests, he’d starred at Hunk’s unpacked things feeling more confused than he’d been on Montgomery's exam. He’d stalled as long as he could, things in boxes stacked in the hall and his duffles slung over each shoulder, until the last shuttle warning pinged on his phone.

Hunk didn’t talk to him or text him all summer. When Lance checked his phone the last twenty messages he’d sent still didn’t show as ‘read’. He agonized over sending a new one all summer, but couldn’t manage to hit send. He didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t play it casual after how aggressive he’d gotten earlier, but didn’t want to spook Hunk by opening up too strong. He figured he’d wait. Maybe something’d happened. Hunk wasn’t an internalizer, but maybe it’d been that bad... He hoped it wasn’t anything too serious. (He knew Hunk worried after his grandmother.) Lance figured he’d find out when he got back, working things out with Hunk. Maybe even convince the guy to sneak into the kitchen to make apology cookies - those were the best. Then the email notification sent him into a tailspin on the bus ride over, phone sliding between limp fingers to fall into his lap.

He’d been reassigned to a new dorm room and a new flight crew.

He and Hunk had registered together. They were gonna share three classes. Maybe it was overboard to try and rearrange his entire schedule, but he’d managed it. Kept himself out every class with Hunk and his new team. Every class but the fighter mandatory ones he shared with Kogane and the one communications course, Iverson’s fault, he had with ‘Katherine Holt’... Whoever that was.

He’s been on campus for a week. Hunk _still_ hasn’t said anything to Lance and Lance isn’t about to try and talk to him first. He knows rejection when he sees it. He’s seen enough of it to manage, thanks.

Lance swings his bag over one shoulder, textbooks heavy as their weight causes the strap to bite into bone. He doesn’t know what he _did_ though. He’s combed through months of texting and the scrambled haze of finals. Nada, nope, no idea. It’s really messing with his sense of chill (and self, and peace and _what did he do_ he just wants to _undo_ it.)

Lance sighs. He’s got a simulator scheduled for today, which, who puts those down for day one?!

He kicks his door shut behind him hoping to everything up in the stars that it’s not a crew based sim. He whistles part of the tune from earlier and moves on.  
It's a new year. 


	2. Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance shows off, meets his new team, loses his cool and gets invited to dinner. It's a busy first day and its only 3rd bell!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I am just blown away by all the positive attention this fic has gotten?? Thank you all so much??? This is a relaxing, silly, fix it fic for me but apparently, we all need something a little ridiculous after s7, huh? I hope it lives up to expectations as we slowly set the stage. Today we meet several key players in the story to come and get more than a handful of minor cameos. It's a slow roll, guys but it wouldn't really make much sense if it weren't... don't worry, it picks up speed before long. 
> 
> The sister fic for this is in process... but I'll warn you that it's a far less silly fic and more than a tad serious. It'll be tagged and bagged appropriately. So look out soon for "The A Team"! (aka Fauxpause finally explains whats going on with Hunk and a few other minor mysteries).

Classes at the Garrison started bright and early at 0800.

Some especially prickly professors had a habit of actually closing the door at 0750, which, _jerks_. There had been summer reading and two ‘mission reports’ were due. They hadn’t taken long, but Lance knew he’d left the last one to rest for way too long and he hoped he didn’t get called out to cover that situation in class. He glanced around the room, waving at blonde he’d had classes with for nearly four years now and shrugging when she didn’t acknowledge him as usual, sort of relieved by the familiar faces. There were a bunch of people scattered about in the four phases of a morning lecture. Some straight-backed and nervous for the new year, some slouching in real or faked relaxation, some already with cheeks balanced on fists and at least two people behind him already had their foreheads pressed to their closed books. Lance forced himself to lean a little further back in his seat, knee bouncing absentmindedly.

Cargo and fighter pilots shared this lecture as both classes needed to memorize Garrison routes and procedure. Despite changing classifications, Lance hadn’t bothered to move from his usual seat. He figured sitting on the right side of the room wouldn’t make it any less of a snooze fest. It wasn’t like he was close with any of the pilots, cargo or otherwise. It’d be a pain to try and shove himself into a row of people who, like himself, hadn’t moved seats in two years. His knee bounced faster.

There weren’t any windows in this particular lecture hall. He supposed that made sense, what with it being a pilots only course. If any group of students would be prone to stare up at the sky and daydream it’d be the ones who’d been scraping and studying for years to have even a shot at getting up there.

The professor tapped a thick sheaf of paper across their desk at the center of the room. Lance sighed and slid in the second stage of the morning lecture. He had a feeling that this class was going to require coffee in the future.

* * *

After what felt like an age, the lecture finally came to a close. It’s ending christened by the beeps of the electronic bell and the many ( _many_ ) stopwatches students had set to count down over the droning course. Lance grabbed his bag and raced down the stairs towards the door, bumping shoulders in the mutual crush to get out of the room. The prof shouted after them, a reminder of the next reading and some vague welcome back that felt more sarcastic than genuine.

The hallway is a wall of noise as the loud press of students come pouring out. The years cluster together and start heading separate ways towards the different simulator rooms. Formed teams seek out their fellow ‘mates, trading a mix of summer gossip, teasing advice, and open-ended questions as to what the first sim of the year could be.

The empty air on his right like nags at him like a physical wound, the lack of warm-anxious-affable presence creating an impossible chill. He swings an arm through the space, offbeat with his long strides. It doesn’t matter. _It doesn’t matter._

Lance does his best to keep the front of the pack, not wanting to catch sight of a yellow headband fluttering in front of him. _It doesn’t matter._ He’s so focused on not focusing that he startles badly when he knocks shoulders with another cadet. Lance jolts sideways, almost crashing into the wall, and scowls. James Griffin is sneering back, wiping a hand down his uniform’s shoulder as though he could literally wipe away their accidental touch.

“Watch where you’re going, cargo pilot.”

“ _You_ watch where you’re going…” Lance mutters at the other boy’s already retreating back. Then, “Hey! I’m _fighter class_ now!”

The other students move around him like water around a rock, their disregard pushing at his ragged edges - slowly wearing him down. His shout gets a few looks, but most roll their eyes and move along. One student, Kinkade, raises a hand and twirls their pointer finger in the air, the sense of ‘big whoop’ smacking back into Lance’s gut. He puts his head down and shoves his fists into his pockets. He _is_ fighter class now. First, second, last - it didn’t matter. He’d made it. He’d make that enough.

* * *

There’s something about the way the cockpit hisses open that sends frissons of joy across Lance’s nerves. It’s probably the only accurate sound in the entire simulation and it never fails to dig deep into him. It makes the hair on his arms and neck stand up, something just behind his back molars almost vibrates with the sound. It’s the best noise in the world, bar none.

Leftover adrenalin zings up and down his arms, racing down from his elbows and out through each finger. The warble in his chest suggests that they’re trembling, even though Lance knows he’s perfectly still. He’s practiced forcing his hands and arms into perfect placidity enough times to be certain that they are, adrenalin or no. He can’t afford any signs of weakness. Not with Iverson breathing down his neck.

Lance lets out a gusting breath before squaring his shoulders and stepping out. He scans the disgruntled faces staring back out at him, and, yep, sure enough, there he is, hat tilted sideways and arms folded across his body. Iverson’s tired gaze and unimpressed scowl a familiar facet of Lance’s daily life.

Why the guy always shows up to haunt _his_ classes is beyond him. (You’d think the commander would have something better to do than hound a cadet...)

Today though, today Lance can shrug the commander’s scorn off. This sim had practically been _built_ for him. A solo fighter run? He lets the cocky smirk curl his lips, there’s no one better.

(He may struggle with exploration sims, cause _come on_ when is anyone realistically going to need to chain _that many_ movements? Why the heck would they ever need to land inside a moving target? Why would the ground mechs ever leave antifreeze in the wrong gauge or remove a pipe on an active shuttle? Seriously, who was thinking these things up?)

Iveson can scowl all he wants. If there’s one thing Lance can do with his eyes shut, it’s hit a target. His score flashes proudly across the many screens and he smirks in the face of the scowls pointed his way. He laces his fingers and leans into a back popping stretch, chest out and eyes forward.

Distracted muttering echoes through the room, the officer in charge of the sim too busy with his pad for the moment to call for the typical silence. The scraping of the stylus against the screen slides off into a long scrawling sound; “Alright, McClain, you’re done. Go wait for the rest of your team in 107b.”

He taps at the pad; “Morrison, you’re up.”

Lance hops down away from the sim, making sure not to linger near the other cadets as he lopes out of the room. His fingers idly flick on his phone as he enters the hallway, so familiar with the interface that he doesn’t even pull it out of his pocket to look at what he’s doing.

It’s pretty much sheer habit. He’s not expecting much, maybe a note from Veronica about which base she’s been shuffled off to this month or an update about his new niece teething on something else electronic or important back home.

What he doesn’t expect is for his phone to buzz like crazy, nearly sliding around in his pocket with the strength of the rolling notifications. His brows furrow, _what the heck?_  

Lance’s heart leaps for a moment, the hope that it’s Hunk nearly strangling his beating pulse. He shifts the phone partially out of his pocket and swallows the lead back down into his sinking stomach.

It’s all from some unknown number.

Lance closes his eyes, breathes out his nose, and clicks the vibrations down a few notches. _Of course it isn’t._ He doesn’t bother to unlock the screen, just swipes the notifications away with the pad of his thumb.

He comes to a stop before the shoe box that is room 107b. He kicks absently at the wall under the plaque before nudging the door open. Better to just get it over with.

Two heads snap up to look at him and Lance is nearly relieved to note that they’re in totally opposite corners of the room.

Then the realization that his team is already _not working together_ slams into him and he can almost hear the internal screams echo around his head. Just… great.

He stares again at the pair he’s been shifted around with, drawing a full blank on both of them for long enough that unease and awkwardness thicken in the air. It takes him longer than he’d like to place the kid actually sitting down at one of the desks as his absentee suite-mate. At Lance’s disbelieving stare, the boy scrambles to get to his feet. The chair scrapes and bumps around behind him and Lance can’t quite contain his wince at the total lack of coordination before him. David Caulfield stumbles down the steps to stand level with his new team, all shaking limbs and large eyes. He’s skinny enough that Lance has to stifle a knee-jerk desire to ask when he last ate, wondering again at the towering pile of bowls in their bathroom, that he just knows he inherited from his mami.

He shifts his eyes over at the girl scowling at them both and absolutely does not have the same impulse to ask about her. She’s maybe half an inch shorter than he is, if that, and even through the baggy cadet’s uniform she looks like she could bench press him. Dark eyes lock with his and Lance can actually feel the sweat start to bead along his temple, _eep!_

“Uhh… So, I’m Lance.”

“You’re late is what you are.”

 

Fantastic.

 

Caulfield almost trips down the last stair, stumbling to a halt between the increasingly nerve-wracking standoff between Lance and what he’s assuming is the team’s Mechanic. Because Lance knows that Caulfield is, somehow, in Communications. Given how little the guy seems to be able to communicate, though, Lance is less than thrilled with this revelation. And speaking of _little_ , sheesh. Seriously, did the kid just not eat? He and the mech lock eyes again over the boy’s head. He’s got to be nearly a head and a half shorter than Lance and the glaring mechanic and despite the hostile sass still ebbing his way he can feel both of their gazes soften in mutual agreement as they take in their third teammate’s slight stature. _Baby duckling_.

She purses her lips, clearly not entertaining any of those warm and fuzzies for him, before holding out a hand, “Karen MacMiller.”

She nearly crushes his hand in her smaller grip and Lance struggles to contain his wince. He probably fails completely given the smug cut of her smile. But despite her height and frankly ridiculous hand strength, a bunch of other details manage to come pouring in. Lance immediately notes that Karen is using a solid hair-care treatment (he can smell the oils, ok? Plus no one’s hair is just that naturally glossy), needs to switch face scrubs (maybe she’ll let him recommend a home mix?), and the clunky blue butterfly hairpin at the end of her plated braid looks like a match for the one his sister used to use the summer before last. He thinks they’re gonna get on really well, if she would just stop trying to crush the life out him through this overlong handshake. He’s at least relieved that Caulfield looks as intimidated as he feels.

“Uh… Caulfield. David! I’m, I’m David Caulfield.”

He doesn’t offer his hand. _Smart kid._ Lance delicately hides his back into his pocket, trying to subtly flex and extend his poor squished fingers.

So that was the new crew then. Shut-in, stuck-up, too-skinny Caulfield (who… is this kid even really 16?), Karen I-could-crush-the-life-from-you MacMiller, and him. Lance takes half a second to gear himself up to roll a narrative about his greatness in his head and then lets it fall to the ground, dead. Scraping-by-cocky-and-alone McClain. Awesome. What a team they made, huh? The rolling surge of confidence from the sim simmers into embers.

 _Caulfield, MacMiller, McClain._ They’re all Mismatched Last Name buds, which he’s sure they’ll bond over later. Lance looks over at his ‘mates and stares down at his undamaged hand. He wonders for a hysterical moment just who in the Garrison tried to put together the whitest sounding team and _missed_.

They’re all standing in a loose triangle at the front of the room, awkward and unsure of how to start. Being thrown together like this… it wasn’t quite what Lance had imagined on those long nights studying, clawing every point closer to his dream.

He almost opens his mouth, but his bruised heart beats against his ribs and the ever-lurking reminder of Hunk’s silence and disregard batter his teeth together. He sees Caulfield flinch out of the corner of his eye and looks up to catch MacMiller glaring at him. He nearly jolts backward a step, only halting as those dark eyes turn the _baby duck_ look on him. She shifts her weight before finally uncrossing her arms, one hand resting on a popped hip.

Her open body language soothes the jumbled mess shooting up and down his spine and he feels himself relax in turn. Caulfield toddles a hesitant step closer, standing within arm's distance for the first time in Lance’s recollection.

“Was pretty sure you were bringing a mech up with you, that one genius kid- Garrote something? What happened there?”

The embers whisp to ash. He can feel himself lock up. Everything tightens and he takes that step back after all, the question stinging worse than if she’d just up and slapped him.

There’s a ringing in his ears. He sees her mouth move, but no sound passes through the sudden noise rattling through his head, his heart, his veins. He thinks he sees Caulfield flinch again, but really he can hardly focus on the sudden extreme tilt of MacMiller’s stained lips. He sucks in a breath and feels it lodge under his ribs, stuck there with the jumble of words he wants to say. His throat vibrates and his stomach burns, chemical and revolting. He thinks he’s talking, but he can’t tell what he’s saying. If there are even words passing his lips, teeth, tongue. Something about keeping up, or moving on, all the things he never, ever, wants to hear given voice through him.

A shock explodes through his sternum as he runs out of breath at last. He comes back to himself in static-filled silence, the ringing still loud in his ears.

It’s the bell.

None of them move.

Lance realizes he’s risen to his full height, shoulders straight, lips curled up over teeth. His mouth folds shut, tongue darting gently out to whet dried lips. He rolls one shoulder, careful to keep his hands below his own waist, perversely glad that lost as he was, they hadn’t risen. He eases back down, his subtle slouch clicking through his spine in segments.

Karen’s eyes are wide, one fist raised but not pointed. He expects her yell, to scowl to.. to… come to Hunk’s defense, probably. Tell him off for whatever it was that just passed through him. Honestly, he’s half waiting for her to take a swing at him and from the look of it, she’s half feeling the desire to. But just when he thinks she’s about to deck him, her brows draw down and she shifts a glance to the side at Caulfield.

By the time she turns back, the door has swung shut behind him.

* * *

He doesn’t even look at where he sits, he just heads towards the middle of the room and slings himself down. He knees bump against the underside of the thin plastic-wood-not-wood desktop. The old style chair-desk strangely comforting in its too-small, plastic and metal, outdated existence.

He’s just glad he made it in time and that it looks like he doesn’t share this class with either of his team-mates. Looking around the room, he doesn’t recognize anyone else either. _Good_. He kicks his bag between his feet and hunkers down low over the desktop, elbows near the edges of the surface. He sees grey and gold out of the corner of his eye. The teacher’s arrived. He tilts his head, curious. Oddly enough, he doesn’t recognize the officer who’s entered the room. He thought he’d met most of the faculty at this phase, either through classes, reputation, or general reprimand and punishment (look, let’s just say that Iverson had a creative streak one really wouldn’t anticipate from such a rigid traditionalist and Lance knew the tea and coffee preferences of more people than he’d ever care about).

They stare at the room at large for a moment, not really moving away from the still open door. After a moment they cut their head to the side with an irate sigh.

“Get your books out, phones away. You may as well consider today a study-hall. Your usual professor is out for the moment.” He pauses to push his glasses up his nose. Lance presses a smile into the back of his hand as he realizes this guy, whoever he is, just flipped off the entire class.

And then he’s gone, back out the door nearly shoulder checking Cadet Sotello into the wall.

 _The man, the myth, the legend._   

Still, weird for a prof to be out on day one. He stares at the open door for a moment before shrugging.

Oh well, free period! Frankly, it’s all for the best anyways. He doesn’t even know which class this is supposed to be. He just memorized all the room numbers and went. All that mattered was that it didn’t overlap anymore and it got him out of that room.

Lance pulls out his books and sets up the usual cover before slipping his phone into his lap. He slides it open without looking and pops open the messages from the unknown number for lack of better things to do.

 

 

 

 

> _Transmission Blocked:_ Hello, this is David.
> 
> _Transmission Blocked:_ Cadet Caulfield. Which, I suppose you can see.
> 
> _Transmission Blocked:_ Right.
> 
> _Transmission Blocked:_ Well.
> 
> _Transmission Blocked:_ I made this server so we could get to know each other before second bell?
> 
> _Transmission Blocked:_ As a new team and all…
> 
> _Transmission Blocked:_ It’s private. So, you know, no Garrison.
> 
> _Transmission Blocked:_ Yeah.
> 
> _Transmission Blocked:_ Oh!
> 
> _Transmission Blocked:_ You both have a class 1st bell, don’t you?
> 
> _Transmission Blocked:_ I’m so sorry!
> 
> _Transmission Blocked:_ I forgot about your morning simulations!
> 
> _Transmission Blocked:_ I look forward to meeting you both later.
> 
> _Transmission Blocked:_ Sorry!

 

Well, shoot. Lance bounces his head a little bit off his books, ignoring the looks some of the others shot him. Looks like Caulfield, David he guesses since they _are_ a team and all now, wasn’t so much a snooty shut-in as he was just… shy. Shy and painfully awkward. For a guy who knew how to set up a private server and snoop out a… ok, admittedly a not-so-private phone number, he sure didn’t know how to chat. Lance was almost too amused at the guy’s style. Who texted in complete sentences? He used proper punctuation and capitalization and everything too…

The phone shook as a new message came in.

 

 

> _682-732-9443:_ wtaf mc-lame

 

Aaand that must be MacMiller. He paused and added in both of their contact info into his phone.

 

 

> MacMiller: look if it was a soft spot u just had to say so
> 
> MacMiller: didn’t mean anything by it
> 
> MacMiller: but u 2 are breaking like years of status quo here
> 
> MacMiller: srsly
> 
> David Bowls: I’m sorry for whatever happened, Lance.

 

...ok, so he was the world’s biggest jerk ever. Good to know.

 

 

> MacMiller: look Marissa just heard from Sam who heard from Kinkade who obv got it from J-Griffin
> 
> MacMiller: that Garret moved to some suped group
> 
> David Bowls: Wait a second, did you name me _bowls_?
> 
> MacMiller: and apparently left u high and dry and how the hell do u kno what he named u???
> 
> David Bowls: Why would you name me bowls?

> MacMiller: also y r u just showing up as ‘blocked transmission’
> 
> MacMiller: wtf does that mean?

 

Lance: y the heck do u have so many in the bathroom??

Lance: dude its not a small pile

Lance: srsly what r they all for

 

 

> MacMiller: what is happening rn
> 
> MacMiller: dont answer that I dont wanna kno
> 
> MacMIller: your both coming to dinner
> 
> MacMiller: bowls dont you start you 2
> 
> MacMiller: mclame try not to be u @ the others or else

Lance: ???

 

 

> MacMiller: i will Break your Finger Guns

Lance: !??!?! 

 

> **[David Bowls has changed his name to David]**
> 
> David: They’re a very versatile vessel.

 

Lance started flipping through his contacts. Sure enough the weird unregistered # now just had ‘David’ listed on the contact card.

  

 

> David: There’s an app?
> 
> David: It’s not that complicated.
> 
> David: I can show you at dinner. I will see you then!
> 
> MacMiller: sure thing…

 

Lance stared down at his phone. What… just happened?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *minor edit: I was spelling Kinkade as 'Kinkaid' as that's how I've seen the name spelled IRL. Apologies for the mistake, the promotional material corrected me like 5 min ago.


	3. Company Cont.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance needs to realize that his torch is visible from space. He also sticks his foot in his mouth and wins friends and influences people (sort of).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit goes to Alfie for use of their pick up line this chapter! Thank you so much!  
> (To everyone else, don't worry - more will be used shortly!)

The rest of the day rolls past in a blur. He walks into his classrooms, finds a chair (sometimes it’s ‘his seat’ and sometimes he guesses he’s displacing whoever sat there last term), and lets his brain go on autopilot. His notes are probably eight different types of messy, but it’s still just syllabus week. He’ll live.

Lunch was an awkward affair. The Cuban hadn’t sat alone, he wasn’t a _total_ hermit, even if the population of BFF town was back at a hollow zero. Still, trying to balance avoiding his ex-mechanic, ex-roomie, ex-bestie (which was a lot of x’s) while still wanting Hunk to _notice_ how he’s avoiding him was exhausting. Not least of all because it looked like Hunk _hadn’t_ noticed. He’d thought surrounding himself with a group of people would fill up the ache, but the idle chatter and awkward questions just make the pit in his stomach worse. He cut early, blaming the transition away from home-made meals and stalked back to his classes. He counted the steps between the lunch hall and his next two classes, trying to work out how many steps he’d grown by in the last two terms. The sense memory of having to jog to class as a kid slowly being overwritten by now habitual loping strides.

* * *

Lance stood in the gymnasium, arms crossed and sullen. He had no idea what the plan was for the day, but given the location and the smug smile curling the professor’s lips he just knew he wasn’t going to enjoy it.

They weren’t on the range, so it wasn’t a fire-arms day. But the mats weren’t out either, so it looked like they weren’t doing combat. Mixed bag of loss-win there, but it doesn’t explain why they’re not on the track or in the weights room.

Someone in the front raises their hand, “Sir? What exactly is the plan for today?”

The professor just smirks and hits a button on their pad. A crush of static sizzles through the speakers before a mechanical voice blares through the gym:

“THE FITNESSGRAM PACER TEST IS A MULTISTAGE AEROBIC CAPACITY TEST-”

A shocked hush falls over the group. The gathered cadets momentarily stunned into silence as the automated voice blares through the gymnasium.

“-THAT PROGRESSIVELY GETS MORE DIFFICULT AS IT CONTINUES...”

“Oh my God...”

The spell seems to break all at once as cruel reality sets in. Groans fill the air, blocking out part of the automated route.

“...WILL BEGIN IN 30 SECONDS. LINE UP AT THE START. THE RUNNING SPEED STARTS SLOWLY BUT GETS FASTER EACH MINUTE AFTER YOU HEAR THIS SIGNAL,”

A weird _bodeboop_ -ish noise rings through the gym. Several cadets flinch. One rubs their arms and whispers, “ _Trig_ gered…”

“A SINGLE LAP SHOULD BE COMPLETED EVERY TIME YOU HEAR THIS SOUND,”

Lance, as well as a large portion of the cadets all bounce their lowered heads in some direction, miming the _ding!_ chime in some various form of satire or rueful amusement. Kogane, oddly enough, looked like he was paying careful attention to the instructions.

_What a weirdo..._

“REMEMBER TO RUN IN A STRAIGHT LINE AND RUN AS LONG AS POSSIBLE. THE SECOND TIME YOU FAIL TO COMPLETE A LAP BEFORE THE SOUND, YOUR TEST IS OVER.”

They brace themselves against the plastic floor of the gym, some kneeling, some mostly standing, all of them letting their competitive natures rile them up. Lance glanced to the side and caught sight of Kogane in a bizarre crouch before Griffin’s head bent into the space between the two. The boys scowled at each other, eyes narrowing.

“THE TEST WILL BEGIN ON THE WORD START. ON YOUR MARK,”

“GET READY!”

“...START.”

 _Ding_!

* * *

Lance dropped his head to his knees, shoulders slowing to a halt as his breathing evened out. He’d made it to the top 8 this year, but no further. Still, at least he’d beaten Griffin. He looked over at the aforementioned eighth placer, the taller boy panting heavily through his mouth. Ryan had foregone sitting entirely and was just laid out flat on his back. Rezia was standing over him, hands on her knees, somehow laughing. The other cadets were mostly sitting down, with the exception of Kogane who was still on his knees from his last skidding run. Guy had sprinted full tilt all the way to the last set of laps and had, almost literally, beat the pants off everyone.

The short boy was heaving in breaths, chest pumping beneath his thin gym shirt, but he’d still been going. Granted it was more of a desperate stagger than a proper run by the time the professor called him off, but it was still crazy and, frankly, a little inhuman. Joking aside, Lance thought the Garrison’s golden boy was gonna pass out for a moment. Now though, he just looked… confused. Like he wasn’t sure _why_ he was out of breath or what he was doing in the gymnasium in the first place. He also really, seriously, needed to stop running his hands through his hair. B-because it was sweat-damp and gross and no one should draw attention to such an atrocious mullet.

Lance whipped his head away right into Ryan Kinkade’s raised eyebrows. He did the only mature thing and stuck his tongue out at the other, smiling gently to himself as the other grinned and waggled his eyebrows back. Ryan Kinkade was probably Lance’s favorite of all the other pilots. They had a solid rivalry going on at the range and the guy was pretty cool too. They hadn’t quite progressed to, you know, actually having verbal conversations or hanging out yet. But it was a new year…

* * *

Lance shifted carefully between the stuffed cafeteria tables. He let the roar of noise wash over him, one or two phrases floating along the currents of chatter to his ears,

 

“Like… I dunno…”

“...How is there already _homework!?”_

 

 _“...Dude._ Put down the peas…”

“And then Sam…”

 

“Cassandra… I know!”

“Completely crazy… You’d think…”

“Doesn’t anyone ever…” “Well, of course not…”

 

“Heard that he’s actually…” “....might be his last set of years at the...”

 

“Leif, I swear to…”

“...Kerberos…”

 

His head snaps around, tracing the voice without thought. It only takes a handful of seconds, even in an overcrowded room. Sharp eyes drag slowly over raven-black hair, stuck on the flip and curl of the clearly unbrushed locks. Purple eyes are narrowed in frustration, words hissed out over a scant meal. Then a yellow headband bends close and Lance flinches away before the weight of his gaze can fully settle. Teeth dig into the inside of Lance’s lip as he staggers away.

He’s almost to the back wall, just close enough to a crowd that he should be able to slip out the door without anyone noticin- a hand latched onto his elbow and he nearly topples over trying to keep his tray balanced as he’s yanked harshly over to his left.

“Hey!”

Karen rolled her eyes, “Don’t get excited, it’s just me.” She pulls him down into the bench, letting his tray bounce against a small space on the table. Lance grunted and straightened his shirt out, absently swinging his legs into the long cafeteria bench. He looked up into the scrutiny of several staring faces.

Sweat beaded on the back of his neck.

The mechanic gave a gusting sigh and started pointing rapid fire at the girls gathered about the table, “Lily, Maryam, Emilia, Bridgette, Adalind and Katrianna.”

Lance’d always thought he was alright with names, but that was a lot get all at once. He can feel the sweat start to drip as their stares bore into him, eyes flicking over his hands, his hair, the smile he can feel twitch out of place as it gets to be a little too much.

Desperate he locks eyes with the blonde across from him and raises a hand to gesture across the table at her, “Are you space? Because I’d love to gaze at you all night.” 

Karen’s hand whips out in a blur, just barely missing Lance’s extended fingers. He yanks his hands to the safety his lap with a yelp, leaning as far away from Karen as he can without falling off the bench. She pointed a finger under the boy’s sharp chin and said nothing, just shakes the finger once threateningly.

Lance slunk lower in his seat.

Adalind tilted her head, bangs falling delicately into her face. It didn’t do anything to temper the acid in her gaze or the edge of her white smile, “It wasn’t  _that_ bad a line, Karen. Let’s not ruin dinner over his total lack of filter.”

A flush burned over his nose as his swelling hope nose-dived back into shame. Lance kept his head down, poking at his meal. He can actually _feel_ when the girls’ attention shifts off him. The crushing pressure of their gaze finally abating. Somehow, this was worse than dining alone...

* * *

Lance sits in quiet, awkward, silence for several minutes. He tries not to eavesdrop or look at the girls gathered around the table for too long, sort of afraid of what might escape his “total lack of filter”. He was used to rejection, sure, but not quite that fast or that absolute.

He can feel David sneaking glances over at him and he’s pretty sure Karen is too, even though he hasn’t caught her yet. But… he’s got nothing to say to these people and they’ve got nothing to say to him. The first four minutes _more_ than proved that. Karen and Adalind shot him down so fast, his smoke trail is still hovering in the air over their table. He looks up again, doing his best to not turn and search for Hunk or Kogane and catches Katrianna fussing at the ends of her hair. It’s brown, maybe a dirty blonde, and completely split at the ends.

“You shouldn’t twist at it.”

Aaaand there it is. He clicks his mouth shut; cursing his faulty _“filter”_ down the devil’s throat and out his anus. That’s it. Time to steal that prototype ship and shoot himself into the sun.

But then she’s looking at him and she seems more startled than offended and he just - he can’t _not_ say anything else after that; that was terrible. So Lance does his best to ignore the rising temper he can feel around him and just goes for it.

“Not - not that you don’t know that already! Or that you’re not taking care of it? But, like it shouldn’t split like that. I mean, those splits are _totally_ from dehydration. Your roots look a little stressed out too but it’s nothing… a little… uh...”

He’s babbling. He knows he’s babbling. Oh, oh no, are those _tears_!? Abort! Abort!

 _Ok, we’re done for the night_. He’s hooked one leg over the edge of the table, deciding to get up and go while the getting was good, when a hand latched down on his tray-laden wrist with a death-grip.

“You know how to fix this?”

He swallows, still half out of his seat, and nods shakily. Her voice is flat, commanding, almost a growl, “How.”

He hesitates for too long, or maybe she’s just as nervous as he is because ragged nails bite into his wrist. He eases back down, glad that Split-End’s grip relaxes as his ass hits the seat again. He gives her hair another once-over, this time noting her roots, the way her hair seems weirdly thin, and the slightly frazzled curls he can see springing back to life.

“Do you have any leave-in conditioner?” She shakes her head and his wrist.

He winces, “OK, well, give me a week and I’ll see what I can do.”

Living out in a desert was hard enough. Living out in the desert on a military base with import restrictions and like, zero “town-days” made keeping a beauty routine almost impossible. Almost.

“Your hair is a little different from mine,” she gave him a wobbly smile, which, ok - cool they were just as scared as the other - he could work with this,

“But I think you should try leaving whatever you’ve got in after shampooing. Just like, throw a towel around your shoulders, wash your face, read a few chapters of navigation or, uh-” he flounders as he realizes she’s _not a pilot_ “-whatever class you’ve got that gives stupid amounts of dull reading every day,” Is that a smile? Oh man, “and then pop back in, section it apart, brush it that way and _then_ rinse it.”

Lance pauses, momentarily ignorant of the audience he’s gathered, “I know it’s a pain; I hate sleeping with wet hair I can’t imagine what it’s like when it’s longer, ugh.” He grimaces theatrically. “But either wrap it up or just pat it dry - don’t rub it!” He looks back over the crinkled frizz, “And maybe don’t straighten it for a while either?” He leans back across and lets a little smile curl his lips “Let me see what it looks _au naturale_ ,” the boy catches sight of Karen’s hand in the corner of his eye and yanks himself back out of flirt mode. “And then I’ll see what I can find to help for real.”

Probably needed some coconut oil for her everything and maybe a full-on mask or two to jump-start the routine. He’d probably need to mix the first one up for her, but it’s not like they were complicated once you knew what you were after. Split-Ends gives him a little smile and squeezes his wrist. Lance smiles back, whole and content for what feels like the first time in weeks, and looks up.

The conversation around them is dead. It died and no one invited him to the funeral. Probably because, he thinks shakily, he killed it.

It dawns on Lance that he just ripped off on a tangent about _hair-care_ out of nowhere to an effective stranger. He’s not even sure what Split-Ends’ name is. And while it’s not like he’s ashamed that he knows how to _take care of himself_ it’s… it’s not the most macho trait. He swallows, suddenly nervous. It’s one thing for his routine to just, you know, work for him but it’s another for strangers in the _Garrison_ to find out.

He moves to pull away completely when a soft voice breaks the hush, “What about cuticles…?”

He looks, quickly and still more than little on edge, but can’t find whoever spoke up. Split-Ends elbows the shorter girl next to her. Cuticles, oh gosh he’s _got_ to get better with names, grunts into her hands and, ironically, catches the torn end of her finger almost delicately between her teeth. Lance does his best not to look as disgusted as he feels.

“Usually? Conditioner or lotion and aloe. With hot water between.” His open hand hovers over the table. Hesitantly a smaller one extends to meet his, it is far more calloused than his own. He eyes the rips and tears as he tilts her hand this way and that under the artificial lights of the cafeteria. Most of them aren’t too deep. One or two are already red and irritated, skin flaking away near the nail bed like shedding armored scales.

“You should bandage those. Antibiotic ointment and a plaster. Keep putting it on. It’ll also,” he ran his thumb over the back of her hand and they both frowned at the rough skin along the back of her wrist, “keep you from sticking them near your mouth.”

And with that, the floodgates open. It’s as though he’d passed some sort of test and suddenly the questions keep coming. The conversation flowed from one technique to the next, recipes and mistakes traded over the slowly dwindling food and crowd. Adalind makes funny allusions to an evaporator that she “totally doesn’t own, of course” and Lily giggles about the time a strawberry mask had lead to losing three inches of hair and spooking her sister into almost calling the cops at four am one summer. He slips now and then, old habits dying hard, but he manages to evade Karen’s crushing grip and slowly but surely the laughter and conversation carry him out of his own head.

He walks out of the cafeteria, alone but content. Four (4) new numbers sit comfortably in his phone and a new app, that’s suspiciously more cost-effective than texting in the desert, pings away with their notifications.

* * *

His phone starts chiming wildly again just as Lance reaches his new door.

 

 

> Karen: ok mcclain
> 
> Karen: i talked with cindy who asked max who talked to kinkade
> 
> Karen: and it turns out ur not as dumb as you look
> 
> Karen: when i saw ur name posted
> 
> Karen: i expected some dark-haired blue-eyed scottish fuck boi and i got
> 
> Karen: well actually
> 
> Lance: Hey!

He paused to let himself in and drop his bag, door swinging shut behind him. He kicked his shoes off next to his desk, pretty sure he’d remember where they were in the morning, and slid to the floor. 

 

 

> Karen: LOL
> 
> Karen: yeah actually ur target sim score didn’t drop off the board today?
> 
> Karen: but ur ranked last on the gen boards??? Wtf blue-eyes??
> 
> Lance: really?!
> 
> Lance: no one knocked it down?
> 
> David: Not as dumb as he looks, luckily for us.
> 
> David: I mean, he beat both of our scores in Communications IV.

> Karen: what
> 
> Lance: I did?
> 
> Lance: wait no go back to the sim today
> 
> Lance: it didnt drop???
> 
> Karen: how do u kno that 

> David: He hit top 5 in Communications VII too.
> 
> David: But looks like he dropped pretty far in Navigations and Calculus II.
> 
> Lance: ok this is freaky
> 
> Lance: STop
> 
> Karen: comsev isn’t in the pilot course
> 
> Karen: and lord knows mari couldn’t pass calc and she’s in cargo
> 
> Karen: boi what r u doin
> 
> Lance: being expOSED APPARENTLY
> 
> David: Karen is right, you’ve been in too many Communications courses for a pilot.
> 
> David: Your whole schedule makes no sense...
> 
> Lance: im in FIGHTER CLASS
> 
> David: You’re also in ComX with me this semester!
> 
> David: And you’ve got English with Karen instead of with the cargo class!
> 
> Karen: wait you do? Blue Eyes, go confirm

 

Lance frowned, momentarily distracted. He thought that the pilots were scattered through the gen-ed course? He’s pretty sure he shared a class with Leiff and Hallen last year… and he’s had classes with Hunk for pretty much since they became friends. Heck, they _met_ in an English class!

 

 

 

> Lance: Uhhh Eng352 t tr?
> 
> Karen: yeah - wow
> 
> Lance: those courses aren’t class based???
> 
> Lance: theyre random, theyre totally random
> 
> David: No, they’re still broken up by mech-com-pi.
> 
> David: Mechs and coms share language, math and history.
> 
> Karen: wtf y do u kno this
> 
> David: We have been going to school with this schedule for four years now?
> 
> Karen: …
> 
> David: He came out of his last review alright though.
> 
> David: So I guess your schedule is cleared after all?
> 
> Lance: ??? how do you know???
> 
> Lance: about the review??
> 
> David: Though who got this mess past Iverson...
> 
> Karen: ok srsly concerned now David
> 
> David: Karen’s maxed her hours out in post-curricular combat.
> 
> David: I propose that you speak with Professor Montgomery about exchanging extra credit [½]
> 
> Lance: woah!
> 
> David: for tutoring Lance and I in the basics. [2/2]
> 
> David: And Lance can help you raise your scores on the range so you aren’t docked points this semester.
> 
> David: As he’s cleared the four different firearm courses already with Kinkade.
> 
> Lance: ok 1, i beat Ryan
> 
> Lance: 2 STOP DODGING THE QUESTION
> 
> David: That way both of you can round out your phys-ed classifications.
> 
> Lance: i know where you sleep
> 
> David: Sleep is for the weak.
> 
> Karen: omfg this is my life now

 

There was a brief reprieve from the messages. Lance stared at the closed bathroom door with heavy suspicion. What was his suite-mate up to? His thought process was interrupted by another notification.

 

 

 

> Karen: ...ok srsly, how r u managing the pi-hours?
> 
> Lance: ......
> 
> Karen: mari eventually kept to cargo bc the sim hours were killing her
> 
> Karen: that and calc crushed her dreams, but mostly it was the sims
> 
> Karen: and she was def in more sim classes than u r now.
> 
> Lance: wait Mari with the freckles and the pencils?
> 
> Lance: did she say anything about needing pointers??
> 
> Karen: BOI
> 
> Lance: what??? its an important question!!
> 
> Karen: Imma break ur fingers
> 
> David: Karen, your record already has you down for four altercations.
> 
> David: You, Kogane and Run are all very close to another set of character reviews.
> 
> David: Please refrain.
> 
> Karen: HOW DO U KNO THAT
> 
> Lance: HOW DO YOU KNWO THAT?!
> 
> David: Lance how ARE you getting the sim hours?

 

Lance stared down at the screen, strangely reluctant to tell his now creepy know-it-all neighbor anything. Seriously, the kid just hit a whole new level of weird. The bowls and the keeping to himself was one thing but this? This was so beyond an invasion of privacy. Jeez, he’d thought _Hunk_ was bad at staying out of people’s- His fingers clenched down on his phone casing. The thought not quite stinging as badly as expected. He took a breath and started typing.

  

 

 

> Lance: its not hard to get into the sim rooms after dinner
> 
> Lance: and the system takes the student code for boot up
> 
> Karen: u mean after hrs?
> 
> Lance: it doesnt really need an officer code unless the scores get displayed
> 
> Karen: the sim rooms are locked down
> 
> Karen: theyre in the middle of freaking everything

Lance isn't sure he likes the disbelieving tone he's getting off of Karen's texts. He scowls and types back furiously,

 

 

 

 

> Lance: look im p sure david is doing a solo campaign of just how bad security sucks
> 
> Lance: given hes reading some version of our files
> 
> Lance: dont put this all on me!!!
> 
> Karen: shots fired
> 
> Karen: that what u got david?
> 
> David: …
> 
> Lance: that’s a yes lance, I am lance
> 
> Lance: oh youre so smart lance
> 
> David: Don’t over sell it, Lance.
> 
> Karen: wait dont u need a commander’s code to boot those things up?
> 
> Lance: no?? That’d be dumb
> 
> Lance: how’d anyone ever practice?
> 
> Karen: in the set classes?!?
> 
> Karen: ok ok so y isnt ur name on the leaderboards

> Lance: well…
> 
> Karen: omfg
> 
> Karen: ur not doin it w ur name r u
> 
> Lance: look i was 12 ok???
> 
> Lance: habits are hard to break
> 
> Karen: holy shit which rando r u???
> 
> Karen: cmon
> 
> Karen: spill it
> 
> Karen: ill trade u somthin good
> 
> Lance: ...taylor
> 
> Karen: ur kidding
> 
> Lance: i used taylor cause it sounds like tailor
> 
> Lance: and the first compliment i got from a prof in the pilot course was for
> 
> Karen: y would u use that instead of ur name?
> 
> Lance: threading the needle on the Tattin-Espa run
> 
> Lance: its what convinced me to get into the pilot course

 

He could kick himself. He rolled half under his bed, tugging one of the house pillows to his chest. This whole thing with, with Hunk and moving rooms and everything happening at home was just. It was messing with him. Ugh, what kind of guy was he? Something going on in his life and he’s just breaking apart all over people left and right? _No one needs to know this, McClain. No one cares._ His phone was ominously silent.

 

 

 

> Lance: uhh
> 
> Lance: hello?

After a few more moments, the quiet in his room making them stretch for what felt like hours, text bubbles started to pop up onto his screen.

 

 

 

> Karen: heard thats a hard move to pull
> 
> David: That’s a nice nickname, Lance.
> 
> David: Would you rather we call you Taylor?

 

He stared at his phone, shocked. That’s… not what he was expecting. He wiped his eyes on his sleeves.

 

 

 

> Lance: no
> 
> Lance: i mean - thanks? No? Im im good with lance
> 
> Lance: i haven’t actually used the name in awhile
> 
> Lance: like two yrs now
> 
> Lance: i just punch in my code and leave it now
> 
> David: Please let us know if you change your mind.
> 
> David: It’s ok to want to change your given name.

 

Ok, well now Lance feels like they’ve stumbled into something personal about David. _What’s up, Baby Duck?_

 

 

> Karen: im just fine with Karen b4 any1 asks
> 
> Karen: David’s right.  
> 
> Karen: also someone has to kno about this tho
> 
> Karen: David hes got the hours right???
> 
> David: He does. Which means you are correct, someone in Admin knows about Lance using the sim out of hours.
> 
> Karen: thats all i care about
> 
> Karen: weve got classes together then lets work that out
> 
> Karen: we can get a group going on readings and notes
> 
> Karen: …Katiranna says her tangles worked a lttl easier.

 

There was a pause in the messages, as though Karen were reluctant to type the next message. 

 

 

> Karen: u were pretty cool.
> 
> Karen: ill introduce you again if u promise to JUST STUDY

Lance punches back a few smiley faces and confetti cannons before rolling to his feet. He knocks once on the bathroom door before swinging it open and hitting the switch. He feels… different. He glides through his routine, phone plugged in and away on his converted nightstand. It’s like he’s remembered and forgotten all at once. His face and fingers tingle, the feeling zipping through his chest and around his ears.

And if he smiles hard enough to crack his before-bed olive mask, then that’s his business. 

**Author's Note:**

> Leave your favorite meme or pick up-line in the comments, I'm collecting a bunch of them for later...
> 
> EDIT: Thanks to everyone who's left a line! I'm still collecting them and sorting them out into story drafts so if you've got any you'd like to see used feel free to leave them in later chapters as well!


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